


How Dare

by nerdqueenmari



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Awkward morning after, F/M, I sure don't - Freeform, Shameless Smut, actually kind of cute oh no, dirty table fucking, do i care?, nope - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdqueenmari/pseuds/nerdqueenmari
Summary: An angry exchange on the beach over the subject of what to name a goddamn kitten turns into... Whatever you want to call this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broadside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadside/gifts).



It's a damn good thing she lives on the beach, so it's only a few hundred feet to the house. Somehow in that short time, the mad passion has reached a new height, and they're hardly inside with the door shut before they're practically ripping each other's clothes off.

She has never, not once, felt such _insistent_ need like this. She's tearing at his clothes, yanking his shirt open and not caring about the three buttons that go flying - she can fix it later. He snatches at her hands, getting them away from his body to throw off the shirt before he grabs her chin with all the gentleness of an angry bull.

She hisses, but then they're kissing again, their tongues vying for dominance. One of her hands snakes between them, the other grabbing at the back of his head. She fumbles with his belt, manages to unbuckle it just in time for him to get sick of listening to the clinking metal. His hand is tight around her wrist as he pulls her away, and he holds her there.

Everything freezes long enough for them to register the scene as it is in this brief moment of calm, the eye of the storm. He's holding her wrist, still, arm stretched out from their bodies, and his other hand is hard behind her neck. She's staring at him, chest heaving with her agitated, irregular breathing, and even though he's less obvious, she is preternaturally aware that he is no less affected.

Some of the anger, the consuming fury that brought them to this place, seems to have dissipated. When they come together to kiss again, it's less the battle that it was before than it is now simply passion. She grazes his chest with her free hand, fingers walking a zigzag trail down his torso, and he lets her neck go and grabs that wrist, too.

She wants to snap at him to let go, but she knows that even if she did, he wouldn't. Instead, she remains silent, her breath quickening as he pushes her back to the wall and pins her there with her arms spread out. He lets go of one hand, and she lets her arm relax, but doesn't bother to remove it from against the wall. He grabs a fistful of skirt, yanks it up to expose part of her leg, and then he's kneeling in front of her, that bare leg over his shoulder. His head disappears into the too-heavy fabric of her skirt.

She thought he would be rough, but instead, when his lips make contact with her sex, she's shocked by how gentle his mouth is. In seconds, she's struggling to remain upright, too lost in the feeling of his velvet tongue on her flesh to continue any pretense of caring who has the upper hand. He's released her other wrist at some point during all this, and his now-free hand grabs the back of her thigh roughly. She almost loses it then, but manages to hang on. She grabs a handful of hair and pulls his head away. It takes her a second to catch her breath, to get to what she means to say.

"I want you." It hardly seem sufficient to quantify the ache in her core. "I need you." This is closer, but even this, straightforward as it is, seems to pale in comparison to the yearning desire coursing through her body. "Please." She's begging and she knows it. She feels a little twinge of irritation, and then carries right on, because really, at this point, _what_ is the point of pretending? "I need you to fuck me."

She hates the smug little smirk that he doesn't manage to catch before she can see it,and she knows that if this ever happens again - "if", like she has any any intention of _not_ doing this again if given the chance - he'll bring it up to taunt her with. It doesn't matter; they both know he's not exactly against the idea himself, and it's not worth denying - not when they could be fucking instead.

They move easily, reading each other's motions, or else both having exactly the same thought. The table is conveniently there; she's chest down on it, helping him pull her skirt up while he deals with the matter of pants that are in the way.

The moan that she lets escape as he sinks into her is blissful. She hardly notices herself immediately arching her back to try to meet his hips. She's never had sex like this before. Sex that's a battle, a competition, that might well end with them snapping nonsensical, sated retorts at each other in her bed later, while she snuggles into his arms and hates that she's doing it, and does it anyways.

But, that's a problem for consideration later on. For now, there is just their frenzied movements. He has one hand on her hip for balance, and he's got the other inside her bodice, having an absolute ball with her nipple. There is nothing smooth or rhythmic or even especially _nice_ about his thrusts, but that just makes it even more salient. This is sheer animal lust driven by two days of going for each other's throats, and it's reaching its height at last.

The kitchen is far from silent as it becomes clear that this will be over soon, because there is simply no way they can keep this up much longer. She gives in first, not entirely of her own choice. A strangled gasp escapes her lips when she comes, the incredible intensity driven one step higher as he unsympathetically slams against her. Seconds after she has finished riding the waves of pleasure washing over her mind, he presses her down to the table, that one hand gripping her breast like his life depends on not letting go.

"Mags--"

She can't be sure he actually said it. She could have simply imagined it, because that's the fucking thing that got them here in the first place: his _refusal_ to call her anything else, like he has _any right whatsoever_. Either way, it is the cherry capping this entire encounter. Either way, he's the only one who will ever get away with calling her Mags.

Bastard.


	2. How Dare Morning Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about some next morning snarking and screwing?

She wakes with an immediate awareness that someone else is in her bed. The realization of exactly who that someone is comes quickly, and she's just about pissed as hell. Not with him, mind you, but with the fact that she'd brought that snarky bastard home last night, and,  _ fuck him _ , the sex had been very good.

She was actually loath to admit it, but to be perfectly honest, last night had pressed exactly all of the right buttons, and she didn't regret a second of it.

Well.

Okay, maybe she regretted leaving Elizabeth in charge of the tavern, but really, that was just a necessary evil. And it's too late now, anyways. The time to fuss over that was last night when she left the bar, and that was ten hours ago.

She sits up, glances over. At once, she regrets it, because the image of him, with his face covered by a pillow, sound asleep and looking truly relaxed, is actually much cuter than she wants to admit. Almost cute enough that she thinks for a second, maybe he's not so bad. Then before she can stop herself, she's brushed his messy hair out of his face, and then settled down, just close enough that she can feel his form next to her, and it feels almost perfect, and she  _ fucking hates it _ .

"Mags." Fucking presumptive bastard. Still…

She settles back down against the pillows and draws the sheet up to her shoulder. It's nice, actually. Waking up next to someone. And she immediately resents that thought, because the day she can't get by without a man in her bed is the day she loses who she is entirely. Still…

It is nice, to be able to lean a little to one side and know there's someone else there, and to listen to his breathing and-

Okay now this is just a little too much, and she hurriedly rolls over, back to him, buries her head in a pillow to avoid having to  _ actually _ acknowledge any of this.

He starts to stir, and she shoves her face even harder into the pillow she's holding, and then wonders exactly what in the hell she's doing. She's not ashamed, and she doesn't regret it. She absolutely will not own either of those feelings. Slowly, she releases the pillow, turns back over to face him.

It's silent. Oppressively silent. Uncomfortable, awkward,  _ too quiet _ . The idea that she's feeling this way in her own bedroom is absolutely unreasonable, but it's short-lived, since it's all swept away when he slings his arm over her and pulls her close. Right away, the moment feels entirely too good, and  _ oh no _ . She might really like this. She might want to do it again - not the arguing on the beach part, nor the rage, some of which is still lingering in the back of her mind - but this calm part. Lying in bed listening to the everyday sounds and his steady heartbeat, absently twisting a lock of his hair in her fingers.

But then the moment passes. The peace is broken by her squeak of surprise when he pushes her roughly back into the mattress. She starts to flare up, to push him back, only to relent when his head comes down to hers. The kiss is fire; she's not the only one who seems to harbor lingering anger from last night.

Tongues and teeth and lips are colliding, it's like they're trying to devour each other. She manages to place her hand flat on his chest and shoves him. All she succeeds in accomplishing, far from making him back off, is him holding her tighter, and she lets him, thinking that this is absolutely dangerous and she's enjoying it too much. After a moment that seems to exist outside of time entirely, they pull apart. She gasps for air, her mouth still tingling from the kiss.

"God, I hate you."

He laughs. The bastard  _ laughs _ , and rather than wanting to slap him for it, she catches his lips in another kiss, because that’s what she’d rather do. Damn him. How dare he be cute? How  _ can _ he be cute?

His hand slides down her back. He grabs a handful of flesh when he gets to her buttocks. She wraps her leg around one of his, and her arms around his neck. There’s a little awkward fumbling, admittedly, mostly due to the impatience of their movements under the sheets, but it ends with a mutual sigh of relief as they come together.

He nips at her lips, then her jaw, over to her ear, and then finally he settles on her neck, and she tosses her head back to whimper in pleasure. It’s less frenzied than the night before, but no less intense. He has both hands grasping her hips, fingers digging into her skin without remorse. She scratches at his back in retaliation, because he sure as hell isn’t going to leave her bruised without her returning the favor. Her hips, to be fair, she’s not that worried about - who’d see them? But her neck, presently under assault by his mouth, is another story. The pressure being applied there is almost too much, and she knows her moaning is doing nothing but tell him he found her weakest spot.

She lets herself get lost in the sensations of his deep thrusts (slower than last night, softer than last night, but so much better than last night), and finds herself wondering if it’s the location or the position or their understanding of the situation that’s changed everything - but really, at the end, who cares, because it feels too good.

Her hand is on the back of his head, holding a handful of hair none too gently. Her other remains on his back, fingers grasping for purchase so she has some leverage, but it’s pointless, and she finally gives up, content to just let that hand fall back to the mattress. There’s a subtle change in him; muscles tense, grip tightens. With a few final thrusts, he groans into her neck, “Mags--”

That’s too much. Her orgasm strikes by relative surprise. Her legs end up wrapped around his waist, and she comes down from the pleasure high breathless and absolutely content. It takes a few minutes of them carefully untangling from each other before they can lie back with a satisfied smirk on both parts. 

Her eyes drift closed, and she thinks that at some point, they’re probably going to have to decide what it is they’re doing exactly, but this is not that point. A thought strikes her while she lies there with her hand just barely touching his.

“If you ever tell me a pun that awful again,” she says without opening her eyes, “I’m shoving you off of this bed.”


End file.
